Seemingly Impossible
by IamThePasserby
Summary: “Hello! Something, something’s wrong with my brother...Stay with me Sam, c’mon!...I don’t know, there’s blood coming from his mouth…Hold on, Sammy, please…I-I don’t think he can breathe!...SAM!”
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

"Dude, that had to have been the most hilarious movie I've ever seen-!"

"The part in the plane! 'It's a cookbook!' Oh man, I couldn't stop laughing-"

"And the penguins-"

"I know!"

"Yeah, yeah! No, the best part-"

"Yeah!"

"-when they said-"

"-they said-" the next words were spoken by both of them simultaneously.

"'_We killed them and ate their livers_!'" They both erupted into peals of hysterical laughter, Sam clutching his sides as he shook uncontrollably, crumbling into childish giggles, and Dean struggling to catch his breath while he drove down the highway in the afternoon sun, grinning so wide it hurt. They were laughing themselves silly, having just finished a job that involved spending long hours in a dentist's dull waiting room, where there just happened to be a tv playing some computer animated movie about a lion, a zebra, and several crazy lemurs. The movie was unexpectedly funny, and now they were laughing uncontrollably while remembering their favorite parts. Every time they were just about to calm down, catch their breath, and move on, one of them caught the other's eye, and the giggles that seemed ridiculously kiddish for men of their occupation burst out of nowhere, and neither of them could form words because the laughs just wouldn't stop.

By the time Sam was able to sigh happily, finally finished laughing enough for a lifetime, he remembered that he was exhausted. One glance over at Dean, who was just returning his full focus to the road, told him that his big brother was just as tired as he was.

It had been a long hunt, a long day, and after their very long laugh, Sam figured they could both use a long night of deep sleep.

"Alright Dean," Sam said, chuckling only once, "I'm ready to call it a day." He looked over at the driver for approval, grinning a bit after their shared amusement just moments ago. Dean glanced at him, his grin mirroring Sam's, and he gave a small nod before turning back to watch the road and replying.

"Yeah, I'm beat, too. Whaddaya say we find the nearest one-star establishment and hit the sack?"

"Sounds perfect to me."

* * *

Dean took the next exit they hit off the highway, and he had his eyes peeled for any motel boasting vacancy. He felt good. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real good laugh, and he still couldn't stop grinning. He looked over at Sam whose eyes were already closed.

"Can't even make it another five minutes, Sammy?" he joked, knowing that Sam wasn't actually sleeping yet.

"Naw, I'm not _that_ tired," Sam responded, "just have a headache."

The mood died. Dean felt the smile leave his face and concern take its place. Sam must have noticed the abrupt change in atmosphere too, because he opened his eyes and looked around confusedly. Seeing Dean's face, he looked like he regretted mentioning it at all.

"No," Sam amended quickly, eyes wide, "not that kind of headache!" His expression told Dean that he was trying desperately to bring back the happy that had dissipated so quickly, "It's just…just a normal one…a normal headache…" Dean nodded, relaxing a little but not entirely. He knew Sam wasn't lying, and that it was probably nothing to worry about.

But the mood was officially killed.

It was a shame, really. The laughter had only ended minutes before, and the feeling of enjoyment and just plain peace had been too short-lived for his liking. It struck him as frustrating how quickly their levity had been destroyed by something as simple as a headache. Their lives were so abnormal; anything could turn a comfortable situation into a dangerous one.

He wished the laughter could come back. It didn't.

He drove a further ten minutes in the newly thick silence that seemed slightly tense and unpleasantly tangible, like someone had leeched out all of the light, sweet air that had been in the car and replaced it with a dense, stale gas that was laced with a reminder of their buried fears.

It sucked.

As they were pulling into the parking lot of the first motel Dean spotted, he searched his mind for something to say to bring back the smile to his brother's face. The look of guilty disappointment that was there now was almost painful to see.

"I'll, uh," Dean said as he switched off the ignition, trying to catch Sammy's eye, "I'll only be a minute…unless the clerk happens to be blonde, eighteen, and single, in which case you might have to check yourself into your own room." He gave a small smirk, and was glad to see it reciprocated on his kid brother's face. Sam shook his head in mock annoyance, but his spreading grin made Dean feel a world of accomplishment.

"Just hurry up, Alfred, before I fall asleep in the car." Dean snorted as he opened the door and stepped out, leaning down to speak before he left.

"Dude, _you're_ Alfred; I'm Batman. _You_ couldn't even pull off Robin."

"Hey-"

Sam's smart comeback was cut off as Dean quickly shut the door on his sibling's voice. Chuckling to himself and casting Sam an 'I win' glance as he jogged to the front office, he saw the brown shaggy hair and glimmer of white moving as Sam shook his head and grinned.

Glad that some measure of lightheartedness had returned, Dean was in a relatively good mood when he ordered their room despite the lack of a female clerk to flirt with. He even managed to maintain most of his crooked smile as he strode out the door into the late afternoon, heading toward the black Impala only yards away.

Getting closer, he raised his eyebrows when he saw that Sam had indeed fallen asleep in the car. The kid's head was turned and leaned against the window, his body relaxed and shoulder's sort of slouched.

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…" Dean muttered, amused, to himself. _Asleep already?_ _So much for 'not that tired'…_ He crossed over to the car and tapped once on the windshield before heading to the trunk to get their stuff.

Setting their duffels on the ground next to the car and closing the trunk, Dean frowned slightly when he saw that Sam hadn't gotten out yet. Dean rolled his eyes and gave a small sigh before walking to Sam's door and rapping the window a little harder than he had before.

"Sam," he called, expecting him to jump or something. Dean continued to frown when his brother didn't move, head resting against the window, mouth slightly open, eyes hidden beneath that too-long hair of his.

"Sammy?" concern made its way into his tone now as he reached to open the door himself. Sam lurched to his side a bit, no longer held up by the door, but he remained in his seat because of the seatbelt. His body was still lax, slumped and unmoving save for his right arm that fell out of his lap and dangled limply when the door was opened.

"Sam!" Dean squatted anxiously by his side, about to reach over and attempt to shake his brother awake, but just as he was eye level with Sam he realized that his brother was not sleeping.

Sam's eyes were open and moving. His gaze was slightly unfocused, like he was confused, but the dominant emotion within those eyes was fear; Sam looked utterly terrified.

Dean's raised arms hung in the air, unsure where to go or what to do. Eyes wide, he heard his own voice, low and rushing, full of worry.

"Sam, what's wrong?! What-" his frantic questions were interrupted by a much quieter word, a whisper that was rough and gurgling; Sam's voice, but as if he was being simultaneously drowned and strangled.

"D-de-ee…" Dean felt his eyes widen further, and he was horrified to see blood begin to seep from Sam's mouth in a nonstop flow, his body start to twitch and jerk, like he was in pain, and more gurgling, choking noises come from the back of his throat.

It was only then that time returned to its usual speed, and he realized he hadn't noticed before that things had slowed down considerably. He reached frantically to undo the seatbelt before wrenching Sam from the car, pulling him into his arms and lifting him as he would a child, ignoring how the weight pulled at his muscles, ignoring that Sam was far too large to be cradled like this, ignoring every instinct that demanded he must not panic. He kneeled on the sidewalk at the edge of the lot with Sam in his arms, yelling as he held him with shaking hands, his shouted words mixing calls for help with words of assurance.

"HELP! Someone call an ambulance!...It's okay Sam, I've gotcha…SOMEBODY HELP ME, _PLEASE_!" he pulled his cell roughly from his pocket, dialing while Sam's pain-induced tears mixed with the copious amounts of blood snaking down his chin and neck, "You're alright, Sammy, I'm right here...Hello?! I'm at the Sunset Inn on Downy – something, something's wrong with my brother...Stay with me Sam, c'mon!...I don't know, there's blood coming from his mouth…Hold on, Sammy, _please_…I-I don't think he can breathe!..._SAM_!" Dropping the phone Dean grasped his brother tighter, pulling him up and close. He could still feel him trembling and hear him choking on blood.

Dean didn't realize that the clerk from the front office and his manager had heard his shouts, joined him outside, picked up his phone, and continued to talk to the 911 dispatcher. He didn't hear the sirens as the paramedics pulled up and rushed about trying to save Sam's life. All he could see was the sheer terror in Sam's eyes, the shock on his face. All he could hear was the strangled, gurgling sounds that Sam was making. All he could think about was the fact that he didn't know what was happening, what to do, how to fix it.

It was all he could do not to let panic consume him completely when the ambulance took Sammy away in a blur of sirens and squealing tires.

* * *

Dean paced across the too clean hallway, hating the familiar scent of antiseptic and the tinny sounds of whirring machines. The clock on the wall must have stopped, because Dean was certain that it was impossible for time to move this slow. Far-off pages for doctors and surgeons over the scratchy P.A. system mixed with the slight squeak of rubber-wheeled gurney's traveling the halls, and somewhere a small ding announced the arrival of an elevator on the floor.

It was driving Dean crazy.

Four hours. Fours hours he'd been waiting. Fours hours too many. Running his hand through his hair again, he swore, willing the doors at the end of the hallway that barred Sam from him to open and bring good news. He begged silently for someone, anyone to come and tell him that everything was all right, that Sam was okay and there was a perfectly logical reason for what had happened.

The sandy-haired hunter glanced anxiously up at the clock again. This was taking too long.

It was with an immense amount of relief blended with dread that Dean noticed a scrub-clad doctor with a clipboard heading toward him.

"My brother - is he okay? Is-is he alright? Wh-?" countless questions, fears, and assumptions cluttered Dean's mind, and it was a good thing that the doctor interrupted with a raised hand and a calm voice.

"He'll be just fine; have a seat." Dean's knees nearly buckled, and relief washed over him in a swift, almost hysterical wave, so that he wasn't sure whether to cry or giggle. Fighting the severe giddiness that had risen up in him, Dean managed to make it to the chair that was set against the wall before collapsing and putting his face in his hands.

"Thank god, thank god…" was all Dean could get out, and he sensed the doctor was giving him a moment to collect himself before speaking again.

"Mr…" Dean looked up wearily to see the tall, clean-shaven man with graying, cropped hair checking the clipboard in his hand for the fake name Dean had given the hospital, "…Lambert, uh, Dean, I am Dr. Ritsema. I performed the surgery on your brother Samuel."

"Surgery?" Dean's insides felt like lead.

"Yes," the Dr. Ritsema looked impressively professional, but compassionate, "the injuries that Samuel came to us with-"

"I don't understand," Dean interjected, mind spinning wildly as he searched for any recollection of Sam being hurt before he'd left him in the car, "what happened to him? He was fine one minute and then choking the next-"

"Mr. Lambert, when Samuel-"

"It's _Sam_," Dean corrected with a pang as he remembered how much Sam hated being called 'Samuel'. Dr. Ritsema cocked a weary eyebrow, but continued.

"Sam, then," the surgeon amended politely, "When Sam arrived his respiratory system was indeed congested with a large amount of blood-"

"Why-"

"-due to severe the internal bleeding he suffered from numerous lacerations and puncture wounds on the inside of his stomach and lungs…" Dean felt his eyes bulge; he knew Sam hadn't been hurt in any way shape or form that came close to that kind of injury before he left him. He tried to control his breathing as the doctor continued, reading solemnly from his clipboard, "…the damage therein was similar to what we might expect from a stab wound or severe animal attack. However-"

"What?!" Dean couldn't help but interrupt, and he realized with an abrupt swerve of dizziness that he was on his rather unsteady feet, "You're saying someone did this to him?!" A fury like hot liquid swooped through him, and Dean had a sudden urge to start shooting at nothing in particular.

"No." Dr. Ritsema's quick and authoritative reply somehow halted the rising anger, and confusion found its place in the forefront of Dean's mind. Immediately his brain supplied random possibilities that were too ridiculous to be reality: _Sam did it to himself…Sam tried to kill himself…I did it without knowing…I'm possessed…I-_

"I-I don't under…understand…" he could hear how quiet his voice had suddenly gotten, discern the whispered fear that had suddenly revealed itself in his tone, and for some reason his hands had started trembling and wouldn't stop.

"Mr. Lambert," Dr. Ritsema lowered his clipboard looking Dean directly in the face with an expression of absolute candidness, "Dean…Sam's insides were severely injured, but outside he was perfectly whole. There were no entry wounds for a blade or bullet, no marks of any attack or violent encounter, nothing whatsoever to explain the bleeding inside him."

Dean fell back on the chair, speechless and blank-faced, staring at the doctor as he spoke slightly faster and more worriedly, "Now I have been a surgeon at this hospital for thirty-three years," the doctor was looking deeply serious, like he was especially concerned or even disturbed by what he was saying, "but never in my medical studies or career have I _ever_ seen something like this. What happened to your brother is impossible, but I just performed a four-hour surgery on the impossible, and so I have no choice but to accept it." Worry lines creased the doctor's face, and his hand was gesturing down the hall to the doors he had entered from, "I need to know, Mr. Lambert, if you have any idea, _any_ idea at all what could have caused this to happen, because there is _nothing_ a person can swallow that could do that kind of damage, and there is _no _physical way for it without an entry wound. So if you have _any_ information about who or what could have done this to your brother, I would like to know it _now_."

It occurred to Dean that Dr. Ritsema actually looked upset; very nearly angry and slightly frightened. The man was leaning towards the sandy-haired hunter with an expectant look on his face, hand still pointing to the doors at the end of the hall. Some part of Dean determined that doctor's didn't usually act like this, but then again, doctor's apparently didn't usually encounter things like this either.

It was with his mind whirling in his head and his heart hammering in his ears that Dean's stammering voice answered the surgeon's question. Dean wasn't unaccustomed to lying, but this was one time when he didn't have to.

"I…I have no idea."

But Dean knew he wouldn't rest until he found out.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

It was two days before he opened his eyes.

Dean had sat by Sam's side for most of the time, and he'd watched blank-faced as the whirring machines beeped a steady pattern, the florescent lights glared against white sheets and blue-gray linoleum, the form of his baby brother sleeping and unmoving save for the up and down movement of his newly repaired chest.

It'd been two days of worry and wondering, two days of anger and angst, two days of Dean hoping and Sam healing.

Healing from _what_, Dean still did not know.

When visiting hours were over and Dean was forced to waste away the night away from the only one whose presence allowed him to dream peacefully, the elder hunter squinted at the laptop, scrolling through countless files and scouring numerous sources, searching for an answer, a hint, anything…

Nothing. There was nothing that even came close to explaining what had happened, no supernatural logic that made sense, no hoodoo spell or spirit's power, no witch's curse or demon's skill.

Sammy's injuries were thus far unexplained. And it was driving Dean out of his wits.

And so, two days had passed since the ambulance sirens had answered the call, two days since the surgeon's diagnosis had called for answers, and two days since Dean had seen the light of Sam's big brown eyes brightening his world.

Two days too many.

Dean was asleep; for the first time since it had happened, he'd actually given in to the exhaustion. He'd dozed while reading printed papers of useless research, and now the sheets were slipping from his lap as his head rested against his arm on the side of the hospital bed where Sam lay. He woke suddenly, and it took him a second to gather himself before he realized that it was Sam that had woken him, squirming under the covers.

Reaching for the call button, Dean was immediately alert again, and he stood over the bed, ready to be the first thing Sam saw when he woke.

It was an amazing feeling, the wave of relief that fell over him when he saw that familiar brown again. He couldn't help the smile that spread across his face while Sam blinked groggily up at him.

"Hey, Sammy."

"Dean…" Dean almost winced at the sound of Sam's voice, rasped and grating, like he had a log in his throat. Still, it was better than Sam not speaking at all.

"Yeah, I'm here," Dean assured him, and he heard the sounds of footsteps behind him; the nurse had come in. He gave her the space she need to work, checking vitals and rambling politely to Sam, who answered her few questions with scratchy 'mmhmm's or grainy 'yeah's. Dean didn't say anything, nodding his thanks when the nurse finally left before coming to sit next to Sam again. Sam's head was turned to him, peering at him through still bleary eyes. Dean guessed the meds were still pretty heavy.

Neither of them said anything for a moment. It seemed that both of them, even the one who was heavily medicated, understood that nothing was okay.

"So," Dean began, clearing the lump in his throat and leaning a bit closer to his brother, "you scared me half to death ya know." He offered a half-hearted grin. Sam blinked slowly at him.

"How long?"

"Two days."

"Geez…"

"Do you remember anything?" Sam licked his lips once before he answered.

"Yeah," Sam's brow furrowed, and Dean saw his gaze slide out of focus as he thought back, like he had to work to recall the details.

"Can you tell me?"

"I was in the car…you were getting something…"

"Motel room."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, returning his gaze to Dean's, and the eldest Winchester hoped he was adequately hiding the desperation he was feeling, the intense need to know what had done this to his brother. Sam continued.

"I was…I dunno…sitting, I guess, and this-this _pain_…" Dean clenched his jaw, pushing down the fury he felt at anything that hurt his brother, but he said nothing. Sam looked at him, his eyes round and scared, "it hurt so bad, Dean. It hurt so bad…" Sam's eyes closed for a moment, but Dean knew he would finish, so he waited more patiently than he wanted to for the rest, "and then…and then you were there. You were next to me, and I tried to tell you...it was hurting so much, but I couldn't say anything, and I couldn't _breathe_…" now Dean closed his eyes, biting his lip to keep from swearing out loud. This was so hard, listening to Sam talking about it. He opened his eyes again and tried not to look as angry as he was. Sam was facing him, but not looking at him, staring at nothing while he remembered.

"Dean," Sam rasped, "what happened to me?"

Dean felt his face fall as Sam met his eyes, and he had to look away. He hadn't much expected for Sam to know what had attacked him, if some_thing_ had attacked him at all. But he had hoped that Sam's point of view would bring some enlightenment, some detail that would point him in the right direction, some clue as to what could possibly have caused the bizarre injuries inside of him.

It took all of Dean's determination to lift his gaze to meet his brother's, failure rising in him as he thought of how he hadn't been able to protect him, help him, or find answers for him.

"I don't know, Sammy. I'm sorry. I don't know."

Dean hated that he hadn't protected Sam enough, hadn't helped him enough, hadn't found enough clues yet.

But the hunter determined that was just it. The key word was _yet_.

* * *

A week sometimes seems like a short amount of time. Other times, it seems like the longest part of a person's existence.

To most people, a week is the basic measure; this many weeks of school left, that many weeks until he comes home, so many weeks ago that she left.

For Dean, this week had been both terribly short and excruciatingly long.

The motel room was unremarkable. With bland wallpaper and plain carpet, the place was actually kind of drab, and if it hadn't been for the massive amount of paper that was stacked on every flat surface, it would have been downright boring.

To Dean, the week had felt short because it seemed like it was only yesterday when he'd checked Sam out of the hospital, like yesterday that his brother had woken up hurt and bandaged, yesterday when he'd frantically called for help with Sam bleeding in his arms.

And any amount of time spent with Sam healthy always seemed to go by too fast.

On the other hand, the constant research through countless books and online searches was awful. Having called every trustworthy contact in their phones, picked each other's brains for hours on end, and run out of sensible sources to check out from the local library, Dean and Sam were just at a loss to do anything but read every bit of info they could print off and peruse in the hopes that some explanation could be found.

It made the week since the hospital seem to stretch on _forever_.

And Dean was getting frustrated. His concern that whatever had happened might happen again had ebbed away, and now his drive to simply know what exactly is was that had happened was fading too. Sam was okay, walking and moving on his own, and he was weaning himself off of the meds.

And that was what mattered..._right?_

Dean raked a hand through his short hair and lifted his eyes from the computer screen, abandoning the small print of the webpage about spirit-induced injuries to gaze at the bathroom door, behind which the sound of the shower's running water made a soft sound. Maybe he was just focusing too much on the bad. Maybe he should just forget about it, and be glad that it was all ok now. _Maybe..._

The water was shut off. A minute later, Sam came out of the bathroom in a white t-shirt and boxers, hair still wet, looking tired but relaxed.

Dean grinned. Maybe he _could_ just let it go.

"Dude," Dean began, still grinning. Sam turned to look at him with a small grin of his own, "I swear, after this I'm gonna be so sick of your laptop I won't even want to surf for porn anymore."

Sam's grin spread wider, and Dean chuckled with him. He watched his brother half-turn to head over to his bead, no doubt to grab some pants.

He stumbled.

Dean's eyebrows quirked, and he almost made a jibe about it. He almost said something about Sam tripping over his own big feet, or being too uncoordinated to walk small distances, or something that would've been lighthearted and big-brotherish. His mouth was open and he was taking a breath to talk as Sam righted himself.

He stopped the second Sam started falling fast, his right hand suddenly gripping his chest.

"Sam? Sam!"

He caught him as he fell, and was shocked to see Sam reach out and grip the carpet in a fist, gasping as he lay on the floor.

"Sam, what's wrong? What's wrong!"

Dean barely had time to think of where to check for injury before crimson began to blossom across the right side of Sam's shirt, and his eyes bulged as his brother's chest and stomach were suddenly opened under the shirt right in front of him.

"Holy crap!"

Sam cried out once, and Dean immediately grabbed the towel he had planned to use for his own shower, lifting Sam's now soaking t-shirt and pressing against the huge flow of blood while he cursed and searched through his mind rapidly for a course of action.

"Oh my g...Sammy, I'm right here, it's ok! Sammy!"

Dean couldn't help the odd sensation of dejavu that made itself known inside the back of his mind, and he couldn't help thinking the same thing he'd been thinking just over a week ago in a very similar situation. _This can't be happening, this can't be happening, this can't be happening..._

"Sam!"

* * *

He'd been afraid to take him to the same hospital.

The sun had just set three days later, and Dean looked considerably different from the way he had three days ago. His hair was a mess, his faced was unshaved, and his eyes were shadowed and red, clearly exhausted. He slouched where he sat, next to the hospital bed with his head in his hands, silently begging Sam to wake up.

He could only imagine how bad it would have been to take him to the same doctor he had before; the wrong kind of questions would've popped up. Questions Dean wouldn't have been able to answer. When Sam had first been brought in, Dean had received the same stern questioning he had at the first hospital, the same insistence that Sam's injuries were unnatural and unexplainable, the same long hours of waiting anxiously while Sam was taken care of.

And still Dean couldn't figure out what had caused it.

It'd happened without a reason, seemingly without a cause. One second, Sam had been laughing, and literally on second later, he was on the floor and his chest was sliced open from the inside out all the way down to his stomach.

Dean wiped a hand over his tried and prickly face, looking over at his brother's still sleeping form.

The laceration had been long and deep, the surgeon had said, and it had gone clean through tissue and muscle. At least the cleanness of the cut had been easier to repair. At least this hospital allowed him to stay during the night. At least Sam was still alive. At least...at least...if only...if only he could know what was happening.

"God..." Dean sighed, returning his face to his hands again.

"Dean?" the older hunter's face shot up, frantic and suddenly wide awake to see Sam squinting at him from the pillow. Dean scooted closer and grasped Sam's shoulder, more than relieved to hear Sam's voice, even if it was thin and weak.

"Hey, Sammy" he tried to smile, but all he could come up with was a half-grin half-grimace kind of face. Sam blinked at him.

"Again?" he asked. Dean knew what he meant. He stopped trying to smile.

"Yeah..." Dean paused, unsure whether to ask, "Do you-do you remember anything?"

"It was the same as the last time." Dean tried not to let his shoulder's slump. Apparently, Sam took his stillness to mean something other than uncertainty.

"Do you know what it was?" Sam asked. His raspy voice was hopeful, even as he winced at the pain a simple thing like talking caused. Dean tried to answer, but for some reason his brother's sudden show of belief in Dean's ability to fix whatever this was made him unable to speak. Dean dropped his eyes and tried to swallow the large lump that had appeared in his throat. He almost heard Sam's little bubble of hope burst, and he sensed that his brother seemed to sink farther into his bed as he spoke again, asking a question.

"Why is this happening to me..." Dean looked up again. Sam's eyes were closed tightly, but his expression wasn't one of self pity, it was one of frustration and anger. He wasn't angry at Dean, that much was clear; Sam was angry at himself, angry that he didn't understand this, angry that Dean was being hurt by this too.

And Dean asnwered without really meaning to, more to himself than to Sam, although he knew Sam heard it too.

"I don't know, Sammy, But I'm gonna fix this, whatever it takes."

* * *

Another week passed full of fruitless research and mounting frustration.

They'd done no hunting unless it was through the countless stacks of library books or daunting piles of printed information for answers.

And it was obvious to Dean that Sam was freaking out.

Sam was fervent and feverish in the way he attacked the research, reading twice as much as Dean and was three times as fast. He didn't really talk, and seemed annoyed whenever they had to take a break to eat or sleep. It was like Sam was desperate to find out what was doing his to him, and Dean could see that not finding a clue was driving him crazy.

They sat on opposite sides of the small table, both leafing through their respective stacks of paper and skimming the information. Sam was getting more and more ferocious with his page flipping, and Dean was trying to ignore the small angry sounds Sam was making. He glanced up at Sam once, noticing the angry crease in his brow. Dean looked back down and stared at the paper in front of him, wondering if he should say something.

"Dangit!" Sam said quite loudly and very suddenly, slamming his fist down hard onto the table, making all the papers hop an inch into the air. Dean nearly jumped too, "there's nothing!"

Dean stayed very still.

"Sam-"

"It's been a week, Dean! A friggin' week and we haven't found a friggin' thing about anything! Not a single book talks about it and nobody's ever even heard of it before!"

"I know-"

"No, Dean, you _don't_ know! That's the _point_!" Dean didn't even have to keep himself still now; he couldn't have moved if he'd wanted too. Sam was standing, ranting and talking with his hands.

"_You don't know_! _I_ don't know! I don't know _anything_!" Sam was shouting louder, "I don't know what's wrong with me! I don't know if it'll happen again! I don't know why, how, when, what - nothing! And it's driving me friggin' crazy!"

"Sam-"

"I don't _want_ to calm down, Dean! I want to figure this out! I want to make sure we don't have to go through that a third time! I just...I don't..."

Dean watched Sam press his palms against his eyes as angry tears began to form, and he was shocked by the reaction. He'd known Sam was frustrated, but this...this was a little overwhelming.

"Sammy..." Dean whispered, not sure what to say to make this better.

He watched Sam put his hands down and look at him with a defeated shrug.

"I mean...I'm scared, Dean." Dean swallowed, and he wanted to tell Sam there was nothing to be scared about, that he was going to figure out what was going on, that it wouldn't happen again, that it would be ok; but he was still working to find his voice while Sam kept talking.

"It's just so...frustrating. I get so mad at the stupid computer," Sam laughed once haplessly. It sounded wrong coming from him, "and the stupid library and I just start freaking out," Sam's voice was a normal volume now, but his hands were still fisted and his face was still angry. He shook his head a little, and looked at the other side of the room, probably to hide more tears, "Man, it just makes me want to-"

Sam was interrupted by the lamp from the other side of the room crashing wildly into the wall and shattering two feet from his own head.

Dean was up in a second, and he slammed into his brother, pinning him against the wall before turning with his already drawn gun and facing the direction the lamp had flown from.

It was empty. The room was empty except for them.

Behind him, Sam collapsed and slid down against the wall.

"Sammy!"


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Okay, I know it's been awhile since I updated this one, so I'm going to give a recap. Dean and Sam stopped at a motel after an unusually enjoyable hunt. Dean went to check them in, and when he came back he found Sam slumped in the car, conscious but unable to breath because of the steady stream of blood spilling from his mouth. Dean freaked, screaming and called 911, only to be told at the hospital that Sam was torn up on the inside with no visible damage on the outside. There was no explanation for what happened to Sam, not even after a week of research, and then it happened a second time. Dean watched Sam being sliced from the inside out, and another week passed with Sam healing and both of them stressing, but now Sam is getting frantic, and he explodes one day over the fact that they can't find out what the heck is going on...

_He shook his head a little, and looked at the other side of the room, probably to hide more tears, "Man, it just makes me want to-"_

_Sam was interrupted by the lamp from the other side of the room crashing wildly into the wall and shattering two feet from his own head. _

_Dean was up in a second, and he slammed into his brother, pinning him against the wall before turning with his already drawn gun and facing the direction the lamp had flown from._

_It was empty. The room was empty except for them._

_Behind him, Sam collapsed and slid down against the wall._

_"Sammy!"_

CHAPTER 3

"Sammy!"

Dean turned and dropped to his knees, reaching to grip Sam's shoulders as he hit the floor. He hadn't passed out, but he looked like he was about to.

"Sam-Sam look at me! Is-is it happening again? Sam?!"

Dean shook him a little when he got no response; Sam's eyes were wide and staring over Dean's shoulder, his mouth slightly open, his expression shocked and clearly terrified across his paling face. Dean was about to start panicking again when he suddenly had a thought.

A thought he really _really_ did not want to be having.

He looked at the shattered lamp beside them, the lamp that had just hurled itself across the room and smashed when it hit the wall. He lifted his eyes back to Sam, his mind going a mile a minute while Sam's breathing hitched and heaved, sounding like he was trying desperately not to freak out. Feeling his mouth hanging open, Dean turned to gaze behind him at the direction the lamp had come from, gazing again at the empty motel room with a new, horrible kind of understanding blossoming in his brain.

_'It's just so frustrating,' Sam had said, 'I get so mad at the stupid computer and the stupid library and I just start freaking out. Man, it just makes me want to-' and then the lamp was flying, thrown. By no one. Wait, thrown?_

_It just makes him want to...want to what? Want to...holy crap._

He met Sam's still freaked out eyes, and swallowed hard, hating what his mind was telling him to ask.

"Sam," he said, and it sounded small and grainy, like he had something lodged in his throat. He kept his hands on his brother's shoulders as he spoke, and tried to get Sam to look at him and stop staring at wall behind him, "Sam, look at me," Dean moved into Sam's line of sight, and tried to keep his face as calm as possible, "Sam? Wh-what were you about to say?"

The question made Sam slip out of whatever private freak-out session he had been in, and he finally met Dean's gaze. Dean watched as his little brother looked confused for a second, and then paled even more as he absorbed the question. Through the comprehension, Dean tried to understand the myriad of emotions flying across his brother's face; fear, surprise, guilt, disgust, and something akin to disbelief, and Dean realized Sam was already thinking the same thing he was. "Sam, listen," he said, feeling Sam start to shake and pull away from him, "Sam, calm down, just tell me - what were you going to say? Right now, before the lamp broke," Sam made an odd sound, like a low whimper, "What were you going to say, Sam?" Dean's voice was getting louder of its own accord, but it didn't sound angry or mean, it sounded frightened, even to his own ears, on the verge of freaked-out-beyond-all-comprehension, "What was it Sam, huh? What were you going to say? Was it-"

"Dean," Sam choked out, and Dean realized his own hands were shaking too. He tried to calm down, to make himself stop, breathe normally, and he noticed Sam was making a face he recognized, "I think...be sick..."

Dean pulled Sam up and over to the bathroom in one swift move, and Sam barely made it before he started to throw up what little he'd eaten that day. Dean stood at the door, while his brother heaved, running his hand through his hair.

An odd mixture of feelings swept over him. He was relieved, incredibly so, that Sam wasn't bleeding on the floor for no reason again, but that feeling of relief was tainted, deformed by the swelling sensation of dread that was growing while Sam coughed. He didn't want Sam to tell him he was right to be thinking what he was thinking, he didn't want to know that what had just happened was because of...

"Yes," Sam voice came tense and shivery, echoing just slightly in the toilet bowl. Dean strode immediately to Sam's side when he saw him trying to stand.

"Easy," Dean muttered, steadying his brother, and Sam nodded, looking winded, but he tried to pull away. Dean frowned, confused.

"Sam, what..." Sam was staggering out of the bathroom, his eyes rolling around the room, his face still pale, clearly not done freaking out.

"Don't...get away..." Sam breathed, gulping.

"Sam, what-"

"I said yes, Dean! I was! God..." Sam made it to his bed, and fell heavily, sitting on the edge and putting his hands on his head. Dean went to him quickly, grasping his shoulders and trying to find Sam's eyes.

"Yes, yes what, Sam? What are you talking about?" Dean's legs were working on their own, deciding to find a place between kneeling and standing, so that he was on Sam's somewhat swaying level.

And then Sam exploded, making Dean step back, startled.

"I said YES, DEAN! _Yes_, I was going to say it! I was going to say 'I want to throw something'! And I wanted to throw _the lamp_!" Sam put his hands down, his face rose to look at Dean, and he was suddenly wishing Sam had kept hiding his face, because Sam could make the worst tortured expression out of anybody Dean knew, and Dean was so not able to stand it right then, "I _thought_ it, Dean! I just thought it and it-it just, just _happened_! I don't...I didn't mean...it just happened..."

Sam was crying. Sobbing. He was sitting there on the edge of his bed, completely absent of composure, made of raw fear and emotion and little brother.

And for once, Dean knew he couldn't fix it. He didn't know when he'd sat on his own bed, but he was sitting, across from Sam, watching still and silent while Sam broke down, feet away, somehow miles away, and Dean was completely at a loss.

Silent save for the sobs, the room remained the epitome of separation for Dean didn't know how long. All he knew was that Sam's psychic thing was different now, that this new power wasn't just a freak one-time thing anymore, that it was going to be a bigger deal, like the visions, another unnatural addition to Sam, one he obviously couldn't control.

_Not like Max Miller. That won't happen to Sam. This is not happening to Sam, not now. This can't be happening._

Silence, separation. Dean couldn't stop the crumbling.

_How can I fix this? _he begged his brain to supply him with an answer while he stared at his brother in the dim motel room littered with useless papers and outdated decor, _I don't know how to fix this..._

* * *

It was as if a silent and horrible agreement had been made.

They didn't talk about it. They threw the shattered pieces of the lamp in the small trashcan in the corner of the room, next to the closet, and they didn't look at it. They threw out the papers, the research, every useless thing. They went back to the routine, and didn't talk about anything that would remotely lead them to the conversation that was being carefully avoided, as if the incident had never happened, or as if it had but had been placed in a box and stored in a messy garage somewhere, to be sold in a yard sale and never seen again. There was no talking about...it.

In fact, they hardly talked at all.

Which wasn't even the worst part.

The worst part was that Sam barely touched him. He automatically stayed a step away, kept his feet out from under the table when they went to eat, leaned as far away as possible in the Impala, was almost always on the other side of the room from wherever Dean was.

And Dean had the sneaking suspicion that Sam was taking sleeping pills before bed, because he was knocking out when he hit the bed, and not waking up until the alarm clock blared, which was practically a miracle for Sam; an impossibility.

Dean knew why. Sam was distancing himself, isolating himself. Sam wasn't angry with him. He was afraid of himself. He thought he might hurt Dean.

And that was the worst part of the worst parts, because Sam wasn't _Sam_ if he wasn't being all chick-flicky all the time, and Sam was being completely robotic, like he thought he would be committing a crime by laughing or crying, like yelling would make the building explode, like huffing in frustration would kill the Impala...

Like he thought anything he did would kill Dean. Yeah, it was the worst of the worst.

It was like Dean didn't even have a brother anymore. But they didn't talk about it. The routine reigned. The silent agreement ruled.

And driving down the road at night, on the way to check out a haunted house for the job they'd pulled up nearly a week after _it_ happened, with his brother two feet away from him, awake and quiet and pressed against the passenger door, Dean felt desperate because he still didn't know if Sam would be attacked again by whatever they had never figured out had attacked him two weeks ago, Dean felt panicked because he could tell he was slowly losing his brother, and Dean felt terrified that he had no clue what they were going to do about the telekinesis thing when they were pretending it didn't exist.

A shell of Sam was right next to him, and Dean had never felt more alone in his life.

He pulled off the highway on Alessandro Ave, taking a left toward this job at a haunted house on Chinotto Road, a spirit they already had a simple exorcism lined up for, a standard job.

Dean put the Impala in park, and sat in the stifling silence for a minute or so, waiting for nothing. Sam was stone.

Neither of them said anything as they opened their doors and grabbed their gear, heading up the dirt lane to the rotting porch steps.

* * *

The fight was not going well.

"Dean!"

"I know, I know- ow!"

"Hold on, man-"

"I got this, just find it Sam, hurry!"

_Slam!_

Dean was tossed again across the room, grunting when he impacted and the growling as he forced himself up again to face this spirit that was seriously ticking him off. It was like the room was full of static electricity, the energy was intense, the sounds were everywhere, books flying, dust blurring the air, an odd unnatural wind sweeping the space, a screeching howl that was disorienting and just annoying.

This was one _angry_ spirit.

Sam was on his hands and knees with one arm held protectively over his head to protect somewhat from the pelting books and china, scrambling to reach under the mess of the room, trying to find the paper that had the exorcism on it.

Dean was therefore acting as distracter. Not so fun, but doable. This spirit was mean, seemed to think Dean was a punching bag, but Dean knew this was definitely in the bag; he could fight this thing, at least long enough for Sam to find that dang paper...

And then Sam was standing and reading it, shouting really, his stance purposeful and strong, and it was really a relief to see him acting so Samish, even if only for the sake of the hunt.

Dean flung his iron poker at the apparition, dodging flying furniture.

Then Sam's voice cut out, a winded off taking it's place, like he'd been punched. Dean whirled, seeing Sam bent over, clutching his middle, his face shocked and pained, and then he cried out.

"Aaaugh!"

"Sammy!" Dean called, but his distracted focus had cost him his upper hand, and the poker was torn from his hands to smash out a window, and Dean barely had time to turn before he saw the spirit send a bookshelf at him, felt it collide with his shoulder and wrench it out of socket.

The pain was sharp, sheer, thin but like molten lava, fiery and hard, concentrated but somehow like an explosion.

Dean knew he'd cried out, but he was too focused on not passing out to care. He shoved himself out from under the bookcase, gritting his teeth and trying open his eyes while they seemed intent on staying tightly shut. Get Sammy, help Sammy, something's wrong...

He could feel the swelling, the tightness, the growing hurt, ache, pain in his shoulder. He cast his eyes around, looking for Sam, and spotted him climbing back to his feet, the same shocked expression minus the agony, this time marred by confusion.

"Sam..."

"I-I'm okay. I don't...I'm fine, I think." The room was still swirling with howling wind, flying books, and Dean bench, groaning to find the iron poker, knowing he had to finish this, dislocated shoulder or not.

"Dean..." Sam was looking way too concerned.

"'M fine, just read the dang thing!" Dean growled, swinging with his good right arm, just as the spirit began to manifest again.

The exorcism was long, almost a minute had passed, Dean was winning, but his shoulder was pulsing, he was panting with the pain, in time with his heartbeat and the throbbing of the swollen tissue. Sam was still reading, yelling, and ducking various flying things.

Then it happened again, worse this time.

Sam outright screamed.

"AaaaAAUGH-GAAAH!"

And Dean had to run to him. It was just the opening the spirit needed. Before he'd crossed two feet the spirit had him, up against the wall, pressing agonizingly on his wounded shoulder, crushing his windpipe, strangling, no air, _no air, _suffocating,_ Sam, where is Sam, is he okay, _no air, _can't breathe, can't breathe!_

And then he could see Sam, on his knees, arms wrapped around his middle in obvious pain, _he's being attacked, he's being hurt again_, clearly unable to stand, but looking mortified at Dean.

Dean could see Sam try to move toward him, then almost collapse, gasping, moaning. _What is doing this...I can't help him..._

"No," Sam panted, almost sobbing, stretching out a hand toward Dean just as he started to see dark spots in his vision, "no, Dean."

Dean could feel the oxygen depleting in his head, leaving his brain, his body straining and failing. He was close now, close to losing consciousness, maybe close to losing everything, and Sam had a wild, desperate look in his eyes...

It was like a beam from nowhere, harsh bright white light completely filled the room and took away all sound, and Dean vaguely felt himself fall in a heap on the ground, _it let go of me,_ breathe, _breathe Dean, dangit,_ he gasped belatedly, coughing, but he saw the spirit, even in the intense light, writhing and screaming silently, or maybe the light was too loud and he just couldn't hear it, but that wasn't what mattered.

What mattered was that the spirit violently combusted in front of Dean's half mast eyes. And then the light was fading, gone, leaving just a tendril floating back to Sam across the room, standing now, arm tense and outstretched, tight, tendons stressed on his arm, his veins strained.

Sam's eyes were brightly white, and glowing. Then they were Sam's again, but empty somehow, glazed.

And Dean watched, horrified, as his little brother fell immediately to the ground, dead weight.

"Sam?! Oh god..."

The sound had come back to the room, but there was hardly any sound to hear. _I can't hear him breathing._ Dean hissed as he half-crawled over to where Sam was, his shoulder throbbing still, and he grasped Sam's shoulder with his good hand, shaking him.

"Sammy? Sam, c'mon, no..." Sam looked dead, or dying. His face was drained of color, he wasn't breathing, his eyes were only three quarter' closed, but he was still, motionless. Dean felt frantically for a pulse.

And then, without any warning, Sam started to convulse.

"Holy-!" Dean reached immediately, biting his tongue when his shoulder screamed at him, and he grabbed Sam, who was bucking, jerking and arching his back on the ground, his arms flailing and his head lolling while the convulsions shook him. Dean tried to hold him, yelling half from pain but mostly from fear, but Sam just jolted, spit was dribbling out of his mouth, and he was making odd, garbled sounds, involuntary, like maybe his vocal cords were just colliding because of the motion.

Dean could feel his eyes burning, and for just a second, it was like an epiphanizing moment of clarity stopped everything and allowed him to think, to feel it all piece by piece.

He been waiting for this to happen, for something to take Sam from him. Sam attacked in the car, Sam attacked in the motel, Sam losing himself to his growing psychic curse, Sam attacked, here, now, again, and now Sam losing himself to save Dean, because even Dean could tell that no exorcism made spirits implode or explode or sent out brought shining light like that, even Dean knew something separate when he saw it, and Dean had been in trouble, had been dying, and Sam had done the same thing he'd done the time at Max Miller's place, he'd just reacted to save Dean, had done what he had to save Dean.

And now Sam was dying on the floor, the power clearly too much for his body to handle.

The warm wetness spilled over onto Dean's face, blurring his vision, screwing up his face in anger and fear and loss. _This can't be happening._

The moment ended, everything was in motion again, and Dean was shocked when Sam suddenly stilled in a way that seemed unnatural, wrong.

Dean pulled back to look at his brother's face, his own face a mix of various expressions, the most predominant uncertainty.

All of the sudden, Sam's head snapped up, his face twisted in an eerie leer, a stretched grin widening over his face underneath, cold, black, demonic eyes.

"Finally," the possessing demon said in Sam's voice, "Now die," and then Dean found him self flying across the room for the umpteenth time that night.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Dean blacked out upon making contact with the wall, agony shooting through his popped shoulder, the impact knocking his head hard enough to concuss.

He blinked his eyes open only seconds later, on the ground against the wall and rolling his head with a groan to see Sam stalking quickly over to him.

_Not Sam not Sam not Sam-_

The demon grabbed Dean by the collar of his jacket and hauled him up, and Dean all but screamed through his gritted teeth at the pull on his swollen shoulder, and it was all he could do not to pass out again when he was shoved back against the wall, hard, Sam's fists still grasping his jacket and shirt _not Sam not Sam not Sam-_

"I just wanted to say, _Dean_," it was Sam's voice, but Dean had never heard his name sneered that way by Sam, it was almost easy to believe it was another voice entirely, "that I'm going to make sure this hurts a hell of a lot, so don't worry, because I'm gonna make sure I gut you nice and slow." A fist slammed into the side Dean's face, and his head lolled before the demon was speaking again, "I mean, I think I deserve to enjoy this just a little bit after all my hard work," he let go of his grip on Dean, who dropped back to the floor and then curled into as much of a ball as he could when Sam's boot collided with his stomach, _not Sam, how did this happen, how-_

"'Cuz little brother's a hard one to break, lemme tell ya," the demon chuckled, and Dean brought his eyes up to meet his gaze when the demon squatted down by his head.

"Get out of him," Dean ground out, voice tight with pain even to his own ears, he struggled not to wince, and grunted as a pang of fiery sensation when through his body.

"No," the demon smirked with Sam's face, and the black eyes meshed back to their normal blue-hazel. Dean was breathing hard through his nose, working to push the pain to the back of his mind, trying to work out how to get them out of this one, and he looked at Sam's face that was just so not Sam's face, and his own face twisted of its own accord.

"Why?" Dean gritted out, struggling to pull himself back up, managing to get into a sitting position before an unnatural force pinned him against the wall, still sitting but unable to move, "Gah! Let me go you sonuva-"

"Did you know those charms only fix half the problem, Dean?" the demon was still squatting, only now he came right up to Dean's face, so that Dean could smell Sam's scent and the sulphur at the same time. The mix was sickening, and the demon kept talking, "These ones, I mean," the demon lifted Sam's right wrist, where a thin bracelet held one of the charms that Bobby had given them just over a month ago, when Sam had been possessed that time, "they only do half the job," Sam's face smirked at him again.

Dean's stomach started to feel leaden.

"What are you talking about," he growled, staring at the charm, the one he knew his brother hadn't taken off since, the one that was supposed to be preventing this from happening, Bobby had said-

"Are you DEAF?" the demon shouted, and backhanded Dean across the face once, twice, "are you that thick in the head," he hit him again, "that you didn't hear what I _just_," again, "_said_!" one last time, and Dean thought that maybe he didn't have a face anymore, this jerk might just have smacked it off. _This is insane, this isn't possible, it's not supposed to be possible-_

The demon grabbed Dean by his hair, lifting his head to meet his eyes, to meet Sam's eyes, except they were black again, and blazing, "The charms stop things like me from possessing you, sure buddy-boy, but they don't stop me from gettin' up inside ya." He let go and stood up, and Dean watched him striding across the room as he spoke with Sam's voice _Sammy, Sammy hang on._

"They said it couldn't be done, ya know," the demon reached the smashed window, and picked at the pieces of glass, "said that miss Meg was just lucky, that the Boy King couldn't be tampered with. 'Too well protected' everyone said. 'You can't get to him'...." Dean watched him grab the iron poker that was just hanging on an edge of the pane, caught by the handle. Sam's hands wrapped firmly around it, and the demon used his body to stroll back over to Dean, looking up and down the metal in his hand, "Well....I showed them didn't I?" the demon chuckled, standing just feet away from Dean.

But Dean was thoroughly unconcerned with the threatening iron and the fact that his shoulder was somehow simultaneously numb and aching. He didn't care that his head was throbbing and he was pinned helpless to the wall.

Because suddenly, it clicked in his brain what he had been missing from the very beginning.

"It was you," Dean breathed, staring with wide eyes at his possessed brother, "you were trying to possess him, "Dean gulped down the swift nausea that swept through his middle at the realization, "You tore him apart trying to get control..."

"Well, you're quite a quick thinker once it's all spelled out for you, huh Einstein?" The demon tilted his head, twirling the iron poker, "Yeah, I've been riding shotgun in your baby bro for weeks, biding my time, trying to worm my ways through his pathetic walls," he shrugged, " 'cept your little charm here made it hard to see which ones weren't were actually the walls of his innards..." the demon grinned and licked his lips.

Dean pulled against his invisible bonds, furious, seeing red.

"But you know what made it easy?" The demon knelt now, iron still clutched loosely in his hands but seemingly forgotten, "Sammy here's got a nice little box in the back of his head, Dean, didja know 'bout that?" the demon tapped his fingers in Sam's temple, and Dean stared, horrified, "He never opens it, ya know, even though it leakssssssssss" the demon drew out the 's', leaning forward to hiss into Dean's ear, "sometimes. Into visions and 'freak-adrenaline' things," Dean's lungs felt tight, he knew he was breathing too fast, but this revelation was too intense, _he's lying, please tell me he's lying, _"But me? Oh, I broke that box open, buddy, and that was the key!"

Dean's mind was reeling, trying to match up recent events with what he was being told.

Sam getting angry, smashing the lamp, nothing for weeks, Sam getting desperate, white light....

"Oh my god," Dean whispered without really meaning to.

The demon snorted, sounding much more like Sam than Dean was comfortable with, "There is no god, Dean. S'just a story told to scare little demon boys and girls." And with that, the demon stood, hefting the iron once more, and pulled back, clearly aiming to bash in Dean's head.

"Sammy," Dean whispered staring at Sam's shoes, and he waited, powerless to stop it, _just like I couldn't stop any of this...._

And then the iron poker clattered to the floor, and the demon dropped to his knees hard, right in front of Dean, and buckled somewhat so that his head was level with Dean, who gaped.

Sam's eyes looked back at him, his Sammy, not a demon using him as a mask.

"Gaw…elp...d....." Sam gurgled at him, swaying.

"Sammy?!"

But then Sam's face closed, and the demon's blazing blackness was back again, and he struck out, slamming a fist into Dean's face again, and Dean cried out when he bit his tongue, hard. The sting and coppery taste of blood in his mouth making him moan and spit.

"Well well _well_," the demon shook his head a bit and then sat back on his haunches, "Sammy here's a _fighter_!" The demon looked outright ecstatic, and Dean hated the expression, it made him feel sick. "I love that," the demon sneered before jumping back up, and then whatever was holding Dean against the wall dragged him up too, and before he knew it he was pinned so that he looked to be standing, but he was still immobile.

Everything started to happen very fast.

"No! Sam, hold on! Let him go, you bastard!"

"I don't think Sammy can hear you, Dean."

"You can't have him! I swear, you hurt my brother and I'll-"

"You'll WHAT? Throw another _CHARM_ at me?!" His laughter was disgusting.

"Sam, you keep fighting you hear me? Don't you stop fighting!"

"Sorry."

The change in atmosphere was abrupt and obvious. Dean could have cried when he heard the telltale sound of Sam's real voice, his eyes clear and really him, even glassy and hazed, even with his voice barely intelligible.

"Sammy? Sam, don't-" Dean could see Sam's right arm was trembling, the rest of him almost unnaturally still except for the fact that he was swaying. Looking like he might fall at any second.

"I…dint….mean…t…" Sam fell to his knees again, and a thin, dark line was trickling out the side of his mouth, his eyes were starting to roll back into his head.

"Sam? Sam, please!"

Sam's gaze righted itself and immediately inked over.

"That's impossible!" the demon screeched, and then those same eyes that had just turned black turned searing white, then the whole world turned white, or at least that was what it seemed like to Dean, like a harsh, bright searchlight had been pushed in his face, and his own eyes burned, even when he shut them, the light was too bright, and he couldn't hear anything.

Because he was screaming, he knew he was screaming Sam's name like crazy even though he couldn't hear himself, and he could still feel his pounding head and throbbing shoulder, but the invisible force wasn't pinning him in one place anymore.

_No Sammy, no, oh god, Sammy don't do it-_

And then, just like before, the light grayed out and faded too fast, and there was just a limp, glowing tendril floating backwards into the center of Sam's chest where he was standing still on his knees, and his eyes were still brightly lit, but the dark trickle out of his mouth was thicker, smokier, and continuous.

The demon slithered out as if it were collapsing unconscious, and dissipated.

"Sam!" Dean choked out, still in shock. Sam's eyes dimmed, back to their normal selves, glassy like before, and he fell forward into Dean's arms. Dean groaned, his shoulder bearing weight, and then pushed Sam over so he was lying on the ground.

And just like before, Sam looked dead or dying.

* * *

A heart can only take so much.

When a person suffers a severe injury, or a cardiac arrest, or a tremendous loss of blood, the heart works overtime to keep the body going in spite of it. Sometimes, it just gives up and gives out. Sometimes, it stutters and falters, but can be brought back if you persuade it. Sometimes, all it needs is a good sharp shock to convince it to get back to work.

But a heart can only take so much.

Dean wasn't surprised in the slightest not to find a pulse coming from his baby brother, but that didn't stop him from trying to persuade it to come back. Breathe, compressions, breathe compressions. It came back eventually.

The drive to the hospital was tortuous. Sam was unresponsive, barely breathing, his pulse thread and weak, and Dean was sure his brother was only just hanging on, and wouldn't make it if he didn't get him help now.

When he got him there _the third hospital this month, my god, Sammy please_, it didn't surprise him that Sam's heart was already faltering again, that they were already carting him away shouting out 'clear', that they were going to have to shock his brother's heart to keep him from dying.

But this was the umpteenth time Dean had been forced to watch his brother almost die, almost kill, be a victim, be injured, be taken away and out of his sight when he didn't know if he would ever see him again, if things would ever be the same when he did, if they were going to be okay ever again.

And Dean's heart could only take so much _Sammy, Sam don't you die, you don't get to die, you understand, that's not fair, you just can't_, Dean's heart could only take so much before he broke down, just a little.

Which he did, while some doctor with blue eyes insisted on attending his shoulder, his bleeding head, his bruised ribs. He let himself break, just a bit, because he was kind of entitled at this point.

A heart could only take so much, and as much as he tried to deny it, Dean had one.

So bandaged, in a sling, medicated, and exhausted in the waiting room, Dean decided he was allowed to sob for a while, and grip his hair with his hands, and bury his face in his knees, and wish his dad were still here, and draw the stares of the three other people in the waiting room, and just forget about being the strong one.

Because Sam had been the strong one by totally giving everything he had to open that stupid box in the back of his mind and shove a demon out of himself just to protect Dean. So Dean figured he was allowed to be not-strong for a little bit.

Because a heart can only take so much.

* * *

It was three hours before Dean realized it had been three hours since anyone had let him know what was happening with his brother.

Then, it was three minutes before he made it clear to all the staff present that he better get some friggin' answers now.

He was led to a hallway with room all along it, numbering 212-232, evens on one side and odds on the other.

"Have a seat right here sir," Dean gave her a look that made it so he didn't even have to respond, "_or_ you can stand, that's just fine. Doctor Gorsen will be out to speak with you in just a moment." Then she skittered away like she thought Dean might eat her.

_Don't worry, sweetheart. I couldn't eat a french fry right now if you paid me…._

"Family of Sam Rudd?" Dean jumped at the sound of the voice, cursing when it made his shoulder ache, and surprised that he'd allowed the doc to sneak up on him like that.

He remembered why he wanted to see the doctor in the first place.

"Yeah, he's my brother. Where is he, is he ok?" There's no way he's ok, he can't be, it's impossible that he can just walk away from this, please say he's okay-

"You're brother is alive, and we are optimistic that he will make a full recovery…"

And the doc went on about specifics and details that probably would have made Dean sick to his stomach again, but he wasn't paying much attention to that part, because all he really cared about at that moment was the 'alive' and 'full recovery' pieces, and before the doctor could finish explaining the details of Sam's injuries, Dean was interrupting him with shiny eyes and an stunned mix between a grin and a gape.

"Can I see him?"


	5. Chapter 5

Apparently, just because someone 'expects' a full recovery, doesn't necessarily guarantee one.

Day nine - count 'em, nine - sitting at Sam's side, drinking too-strong coffee with too little in his stomach from that morning, Dean was verging on a level of desperation he hadn't felt in a very long time.

"C'mon bro, nine is not a cool number. Everybody knows seven is the best, and eight is second best, but I know _you_ know 'seven ate nine', so nine is no good man.......Yeah, I know, that was pretty stupid, huh? Just open those eyes for me buddy, and I'll stop sayin' stupid stuff and pretend it never took this long, alright?"

Dean put his half-drunk cup of caffeine on the white-gray counter to his left, trying to ignore the slightly gross smell of antiseptic and the ever increasingly aggravating sound of rubber wheeled carts going through the hallway out the door behind him. With Sam right in front of his eyes, breathing on his own, heart strong, brain activity looking good, and face only a little too pale, it was almost possible to pretend Sam was just asleep.

But Dean_ knew_ what Sam looked like when he slept, and he _knew_ that Sam was the most peaceful and youthful he could be when he was truly asleep, and Dean _knew_ that an unconscious, comatose Sam looked expressionless, and old, and just _wrong_.

Sam looked so _wrong_, lying there....

But that was all he did, since Dean had brought him into the hospital, scared to death it was all over, that seizures _two, two seizures, too many_ and possessions _was in him for weeks, how could I not know_ and crazy freaky psychic powers spewing from the 'box' in Sam's head _demon opened it, it was already there, oh god _would've been just too much, that Sam wasn't gonna _of course he was gonna, he's always gonna, I'm not gonna let him die, not ever._

Still, nine days is long enough to give anyone a migraine. Dean had a migraine the size of Egypt Egypt sounds pretty big, maybe should try for bigger, maybe Africa? Yeah, Africa sounds about right the size of Africa pounding through his head, seeming to beat the rhythm of 'wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup' over and over, which really wasn't helping at all.

"Sammy you gotta stop with the beauty sleep man, at this rate you might get up to being half as good-looking as me."

Sam's heart bleep bleep bleeped at him, steady, paced.

"You're right, there's no way you could sleep long enough to get that far. So stop trying kiddo...."

* * *

Ten days is ridiculous. Dean had thought it was over, he really had at 6:38 the night of stupid day nine. With the knuckles of his right hand kneading his forehead and his left tapping out the lyrics to Welcome To The Jungle in morse code on Sam's forearm, it had seemed totally normal for Sam to sigh his typical, huffy, 'Dean, you're bugging me, go away' sigh, to flick out his right forefinger. Dean almost grinned, about to make some comment. Of course, three quarters of a second later, he almost choked, fumbling to stand and nearly breaking the call button when he pressed it hard enough to put his thumb through it.

"Sam? Sammy?!" he'd called his name, and the nurse had come, and Sam had sighed again, and made a face, and then nothing.

Nothing, even though Dean practically had to threaten murder to be allowed to stay overnight, and watched him until at least four in the morning. Nothing, not a sigh, not a huff, not a twitch, nothing.

Dean had really thought Sam was waking up, thought it was going to be ok, tht they were never going to have to reach day ten.

Because ten days is ridiculous. How the friggin' hell did anyone expect him to go ten friggin' days without someone to mock or push around or call names? How did anyone expect him to last ten days without a geeky sidekick around to amplify Dean's rugged coolness, his clearly superior sex appeal? How could anyone expect him to get to sleep at night if he didn't have Sam there to yell at or throw things at or- or- or laugh with or drive with or just sit with. How was he supposed to just go a day with hearing Sam's stupid useless factoid blurbs and scolding, how was he supposed to decide what to eat if he had nobody to argue about it with? How was Dean supposed to just live without a brother to talk to, to work with, to rust in, to live with him?

It was just was ridiculous because this whole thing was Dean's fault anyway, this whole thing could've been prevented if he'd just paid that much more attention when things started going crazy, if he'd just taken that much more precaution instead of letting his guard down on account of some stupid, measly little charms. If Dean had just done something....anything....there had to be something, he could have.....he should have......the whole thing....

"...the whole thing....god...just....if I'd just...."

"Shutup Dn 'msleepin..."

And that right there made ten, _ten_, 1- 0; made it Dean's official favorite number ever.

* * *

Day number twelve turned out pretty good too, since they finally got to ditch the hospital and get back to the second most (_just for today, ok?_) important individual in Dean's world.

"Hey baby, Daddy's home and he brought a brother," Dean called out into the lot, coming up with a pat on the Impala's top, looking back to his brother and managing to keep his smile from hitching, ignoring the distinct pull he had to hold Sam's elbow or something; the kid had to still be hurting....

"Dean 'm fine," Sam huffed, eyes downcast and mussed up hair falling in his face as he reached to let himself in the car.

"Didn't say anything, sasquatch," Dean replied, snark intact, and settled in the driver's seat, starting the ignition.

"Whatever," came Sam's reply.

They sat. The engine purred, long and subtle, and they sat, the minutes ticking by.

"What're you doing, Dean? Car's on...."

Dean stared at the steering wheel in his hands. He could feel it, he could see Sam's posture, he could practically smell the sulk coming off the kid. He needed to say something.

"Right, sorry. So you feel like pizza or chinese? Or tacos, I could do tacos man..."

"Whatever," came Sam's reply.

Dean swallowed, suddenly not hungry at all.

"Eh we'll see what we can get delivered once be get to the room," Dean said with a shrug, pulling out of the lot and onto the street, pretending to ignore it when Sam picked up his painkillers and tossed em in the back seat.

* * *

"Whatever," came Sam's reply.

"Dude!" Dean stood, throwing down the cloth he'd been wiping down the guns with, "That's it, that's frickin' enough! Out with it, Sam!"

Dean glared at his brother, who looked up at him exasperatedly from his seat on the edge of the bed.

"What? Dean, I dunno what you're-"

"Don't gimme the crap Sam, I can tell when you're full of it. If somethin's eating you, then just out with it, because I'm sick with the whatevers, man. You just sit there, you don't move, you don't talk, and everything's just 'whatever' with you since the...." he made a waving motion with his hand,".....thing," Dean didn't want to say it, he didn't want to say demon, or hospital, or royal-screw-up, or anything really, they weren't the best of memories, but Sam was clearly hung up on something, and it was really just not cool to have his brother back minus the brother part.

But suddenly Sam was on his feet and in Dean's face, up close and personal, _and wow, deja vu anybody?_

"The _thing_, Dean?" Sam's voice was in angry-low mode, all quiet and furious, kind of creepy in how it reminded Dean of that night, _not the same_, "Why don't you just say it? It wasn't just a _thing_, Dean. It wasn't just a _thing_ that was inside of me. It wasn't just a _thing_ that I almost _murdered_ you. It wasn't just a thing, Dean, and if you're gonna talk about it, if you're gonna talk to _me_ about it, then _say_ it. Say it, man, because you frickin' act like nothing happened at all, like it was no big deal, just immediately forgivable," he waved his hands in the air, sarcastic,"no big deal, back to normal! Well it's kind of a big deal, Dean, and I'm sorry if it bugs you that it's 'eating me,' but in case you hadn't noticed, nothing is fixed."

Den looked, stony-faced, at how upset Sam looked, and it clicked. It suddenly made sense. He dropped his gaze, nodding slowly, and took a side-step around Sam, pacing once, bringing his hand to his jaw, and turning. He gazed at Sam, still nodding, "You're right."

Sam stared. "What?"

"You're right. It wasn't just a thing. You were possessed, Sam," Dean shrugged, didn't acknowledge the way Sam's face went blank and his shoulders dropped, "You were attacked, and possessed, and then I was attacked, and we both could have died. You almost did," Dean swallowed, looking at Sam, stepping toward him again, slowly, "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry Sam, because it's my fault."

Dean watched calmly when Sam's entire demeanor shifted, taking a step back and looking like Dean had just proposed that they have cat for dinner, "What? Dean, that's not-"

"You're right, it isn't just forgivable. I'm sorry I wasn't better prepared, and that I just didn't realize, didn't notice. I'm sorry I let it slip by me, and I'm sorry it came so close." Dean said it all calmly, watching Sam's face turn mortified.

"Dean, it's not-"

"And I know it sucked, Sam, but I can't change it. I wanna, but I can't go back and fix it right." Dean kept on, ignoring Sam when he got louder, more insistent.

"Dean-"

"You just gotta believe me, Sammy, I know it was a big deal, and ot's because I screwed up."

"De-" Dean interrupted him, still watching his brother

"Sam, I sorry for the whole thing."

"STOP IT!" Sam was shaking, "Stop Dean, it's not, it's not your fault it's _mine_! It's mine, okay?! It's mine, I-I-" Dean just stood, watching, forcing himself not to move even though Sam's eyes were welling now, and dangit he knew they'd have to do the chick flick thing eventually, but this just sucked, it sucked so bad. Sam continued, "It was _in me_ and I didn't even know it! I should have, I could tell something was wrong and I didn't even think, I thought, the charms, I thought....and then I _couldn't_ think because_ it_ was thinking and making me hurt you, and it was in my head, and I didn't...I didn't know what else to do, it just put it right in front of me, and I-I knew I couldn't, I knew it was bad to use it, but I did, I had to, it was going to kill you, and I couldn't stop after I started it was just so bright, it was so bright and it felt so strong....I couldn't stop....I didn't....I didn't mean...." Sam was crying in earnest now. Dean looked on, feeling somewhat mortified himself.

There's not much worse to watch than Sam crying.

He came up to his brother and gripped his shoulders, swallowing the tightness in his throat before willing Sam to meet his gaze before he said what he'd been waiting to say since the thing began anyway.

"Hey, look at me. _Look_, " Dean emphasized his words with a little shake, "None of this was your fault, Sammy."

"Dean-"

"No, no it wasn't. And it's not mine either, even though I feel like it, even though I want to take some sort of responsibility for it. It just happened Sam, it happened and it got by us, and you dealt with it the only way you could, and you saved me, you saved _you_, and we're okay. We're alright, Sam."

"I couldn't stop, Dean, I didn't want-"

"I know, kiddo, I know. But we'll worry about that part if - _if _- it comes to it, alright? I trust you, man, and if the," Dean swallowed again, "if the psychic stuff crops up eventually, we'll worry about it then. But what happened was not your fault, Sam. You can't let it eat you up. Not for that, Sam, not because you feel guilty. Don't let it eat you up for that. Okay?"

Sam was sniffling somewhat pathetically, and Dean was genuinely surprised when he agreed, "Yeah, okay." Dean had expected it to be a lot harder that that. He raised his eyebrows, and Sam rolled his eyes before tossing out, "But I'm sorry, too." Dean nodded again, this time seriously.

"I know Sam."

"Okay."

"Okay. And we _are_ fixing it."

Sam snorted, "Yeah okay. How we goin' about that?"

Dean patted Sam on the shoulder, turning and settling back down, picking up the rag and resuming his gun cleaning ritual.

"How do you feel about tattoos, Sammy?"


End file.
